


dog eat dog

by cptsuke



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pre-Series, Torture, numbers-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:36:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsuke/pseuds/cptsuke
Summary: Numbers never reallly expected any favors from life, which is lucky because he never really got any either.Numbers-centric prequel





	1. childhood

**Author's Note:**

> my goodness, this was supposed to be a couple of thousand word loveletter to Numbers and Wrench. i done went wrong somewhere though.  
> additional warnings&descriptions for all the horrible things in each chapter at the note at the bottom  
> &if you think i should tag anything extra pls let me know,

 

 

Numbers has been Numbers longer than he was ever Grady.

Court ordered therapy from when he was six and had almost scratched some kid's eyes out for stealing his crayon. He doesn't remember the lady therapist much – the system might have wanted him to have better anger management skills but they surely did not want to pay for it – but he does remember her gentle hand on his shoulder as he shook with anger just recounting some minor argument. She'd told him to count, to focus on one number after the other when rage threatened to close up his throat and after she's gone he still tries to count his anger out, to focus on something other than the burning anger that's been boiling in his bones for as long as he can remember. It even worked some of the time.

She leaves, but the numbers remain with him.

 

Numbers spends most of his childhood in a group home that's seriously underfunded and full of kids that the state likes to call 'troubled'.

He's a too small, too quick to anger kid whose always mouthing off under his breath, so it's no wonder he never gets adopted or fostered, but the actual place isn't the worst. And from what little he remembers of before, the group home is probably a major step up in comparison.

He doesn't make friends, the group home has something of a revolving door for the normal kids, the only constants are unplaceable kids like him, and the sort of kids that fondle cigarette lighters a little too lovingly. He tries to stay away from those kids, they're too quick to press fire-hot metal to the flesh of kids smaller than them and Numbers might be an asshole, but he's never felt the urge to gut a family pet.

 

He meets Wrench in the storeroom that doubles as the sort of library for the home's few books. It's mostly shelf after shelf of musty files and cobwebbed equipment that had no place in the present day, but there's a handful of donated books and it's _quiet_ and mostly deserted.

And when he's eight and he pisses off the resident psychopaths, the cluttered rows make for good hiding. Numbers is still curled up between the shelving, when a ginger haired kid comes in, settles down against a wall and opens a book. He doesn't seem to notice Numbers, or hear him sniffling and choking back sobs because there was burning red welts up his arm from when he couldn't run fast enough, or hide well enough.

Then the door slams opens and Psycho Kid stalks in. Numbers freezes, suddenly animalistic with the conviction that if he doesn't move the kid won't see him. The ginger kid doesn't look up until Psycho is standing over him, kicks his shoe. He looks up with a frown as Psycho asks about Numbers. Ginger kid frowns again then looking directly at Numbers, he shakes his head, moving so that the other kid's back is facing Numbers. Pyscho eventually leaves, and the ginger kid just goes back to his book like he didn't just face down the kid that liked to burn other kids, like Numbers isn't scrubbing angrily at tears that won't stop falling.

That's the beginning of their friendship. A small act of kindness in a place where that sort of thing didn't exist without quid pro quo.

Ginger kid's name is Wes, he writes it in big looping letters on a piece of paper that they trade back and forth laying on the cold floorboards of the library. He can't hear anything, not even when Numbers claps really loudly behind his head. Instead of talking he does this thing with his hands, gestures that mean words and letters that seem incomprehensible until they don't.

Numbers finds he fingerspells with clumsy, cramping hands that suddenly seem incapable of the simplest of motions, but there's a happy gleam in Wes' eyes every time he tries so he keeps at it.

By the time they run out of paper to write on, they continue with stilted hand signs, with Wes only having to correct every second sign, manipulating Numbers' hand placings until it reads like it should.

Numbers never thought he could have a friend in this place, not really - he never has before - it's weird and he has no idea what he's doing but he wouldn't swap it for anything in the world.

 

When Numbers is eleven a man comes out of nowhere and saves him and Wrench. It's not his first introduction to violence – he's a motherless bastard that's been bouncing around group homes since his sickly ass was abandoned and he's a full head shorter than most of the kids younger than him, he _knows_ violence.

But this?

This is a revelation, something akin to meeting a god in the least expected place.

The kid hitting him is pulled off him and as Numbers looks up through eyelashes sticking together from thick drops of blood, he knows he's looking at someone much more powerful than him. Than maybe anyone he's ever met. God – or the Devil – stares down at him and all Numbers knows is he may be about to die, but he wants to know what that feels like.

And then Wes is there, throwing himself between Numbers on the ground and the wrathful god standing over them.

Numbers always figures it was that moment that set his entire life's path. Because that man had just put a hand on Wes' head, like a praise for a job well done and left as quickly and silently as he'd arrived.

 

A year later a man with a different face but those same burning eyes offers them a job, something small, something simple. They'll say yes and fall into a rabbit hole of low level lackeys of a mob just building itself up in the ashes from the fallout of the biggest gang war the state has ever seen. Kids running packages across the city and thinking themselves big outlaws.

Maybe he should, but Numbers never found much regret in his decision.

 

 

The last time Numbers saw Wes, before he became Wrench and as much had changed as years had passed. He'd felt like a little kid, burning messes of rage and bloodlust shoved into a too small 14 year olds body.

The exact memory of how he ends up in juvie is hazy. He remembers the not-yet-Wrench's bloody nose and a look on his face that says he'd take a thousand bloody noses rather than feel whatever emotions were roiling around inside him.

Numbers didn't know who made his friend look like that, but he can guess. Because it's always the same group of kids. If there's one thing Numbers had learned in his fourteen short years on this earth, no matter how much dirty dealing they did in their free time, there was no shortage of bullies gunning for you if you're a tiny smart mouthed brat with a deaf shadow.

This group of kids always seem to go after Numbers or Wrench when they're separated. But Wrench had given them pretty good back, by the looks of the bruises blooming on the kids faces.

Numbers doesn't remember what he does, just an overwhelming rush of blood in his ears and then a lot blood on his hands. There's a lot of screaming, then yelling as he's torn away from them by bigger, harder hands. Then there's cops holding him down because he never was as careful he should be and it's stupid, stupid, _stupid_ to just attack someone at midday in the middle of the street.

His wrists hurt from cuffs that haven't come off even as someone's lecturing Number's like he's supposed to care that he maybe maimed someone for life. Maybe they'd think twice about being assholes now, going through life with one eye instead of two.

Some hours later their questions take a sudden turn, Numbers is tired and he already knows he's fucked, but they're asking about Tripoli like Numbers is their foot in that particular door.

Numbers is a fourteen year old kid looking down long years behind bars but they're asking him to give up the only people who've ever been kind to him. To ruin Wes' life along with his own. So fuck them, and fuck everything else.

 

Number spends the next four years of his life in a slow whirlwind of systematic humiliation and casual violence. It's safe to say juvie improves neither his prospects nor general disposition. If anything, he comes out meaner, a bigger chip on his shoulder than the short bastard from a group home he'd been when they'd locked him up.

He likes to think Mr Tripoli would be proud of him, standing up for Wes, but in truth, he'd probably just be disappointed that Numbers got caught.

Juvie is a sort of hell. Overcrowding and the supposed severity of his crime gets Numbers shipped two states away from the only place he's ever known. He misses Wes, misses having someone watching his back, has to learn how to navigate an increasingly hostile environment without a friend to back him up. Takes him a bit, he has to bend in ways he didn't think he knew how to, but he does learn. Makes friends with a kid whose older brother heads some sort of gang in Sioux City. Carlos is a lonely kid who likes the way Numbers fights and isn't scared of him. He's mean and has a hair trigger temper worse than Numbers', but Numbers has seen scarier people, has _sat at a table_ with people who wouldn't hesitate to end him if he were to misstep, he can deal with whatever a sixteen year old punk throws at him.

He gets a lot of different names in juvie. Bitch, which he isn't partial to, Psycho which he likes better if only on the merit that the kids using it should know better than to fuck with him. But Numbers remains the name that stays forefront, the one he still gets called the most. For different reasons than before maybe, but Numbers for the count he keeps in his head, the days til he's out and free and no longer stuck in these over bleached, sickly fluorescent lit halls. Numbers for the uncanny way he can keep track of the unwritten ebb and flow of favors that exchange back and forth throughout the facility, Numbers can always be counted on knowing who owes who and what.

He bides his time, waits and survives.

 

Numbers gets out on a Wednesday morning, the sun is a dull glow behind cold clouds and he's alone with nothing but a scrap of paper with his probation officer's information on it and enough money for the bus fare to the nearest town centre. He's been eighteen for all of five hours and is all alone in the world. Happy freakin birthday.

In Omaha he discovers that all his contact numbers, all those feverishly remembered digits, are all out of date or disconnected, which makes sense, life goes on and they used to change their contact systems religiously to avoid the operation getting compromised. He even tries the group home, but lady answering the phone says Wes is gone, long gone, and Numbers tries not to imagine all the shitty places he could be. And yet. He keeps up a vague hope, if he can get word, find someone – anyone - from home, maybe then he can get home too.

 

He thumbs his way all the way up to the South Dakota border before the deals that ensured his survival these past four years catch up to him. Numbers is a smart kid, knows when the ask of a few favors are dipped in threats and though he's loathe to admit it, he does owe Carlos something for the ease of his last couple of years in detention.

 

So he bounces around, floats off Carlos and his contacts – Numbers is hesitant to call them friends by virtue of maiming people really isn't the sort of foundation he thinks sturdy friendships are built upon – but he gets a job. Does it well and gets another. Does anything that crosses his path, and slowly, ever so slowly builds a rep of being reliable with a gun in his hand, being someone handy to have around if there's dirty work to be done. He only ever refrains from jobs that might put him at odds with any sort of organised crime, more than once having to get forceful in his refusals. He knows eventually he's going to come face to face with a tall ginger motherfucker or someone else working in Fargo's name, and on that day Numbers wants to know that he hasn't screwed himself over before he finds out exactly where he stands. Before he finds out if maybe then he can go home.

 

He tries to take jobs that send him further and further north, hopes it'll put him on the collision course with his past by pure proximity. Carlos might be a big name in his neighbourhood – might be trying to stretch his territory out past the confines of the city he lives in – but when it comes to clout he's not even close to the sort of power the Fargo operation has. Carlos is smart, Numbers might be a good shot and a good trigger guy to have at his back, but he wasn't worth going into an all out war with someone like Tripoli. In fact Numbers is hoping Carlos will see it as an opportunity to leverage some good will and business from the syndicate.

If Numbers can just get back in touch with them.

Fuck, but he wants to go home.

 

 

It does happen eventually. Maybe not as soon as he'd like but Numbers has always found life was like that. Numbers is twenty three and he's still counting out his anger – quietly, to himself - though now it's more for breathing room, to sharpen and freeze it into something cold and calculating, no less forceful, but _smarter_. If he were to give it a second thought, somewhere his long-ago therapist has died a little inside at the way he's warped her well meaning calming techniques.

He's fresh out of serving two years of a five year sentence for assault and the unlicensed glock he'd been unfortunately carrying when he'd gotten scooped up, but more importantly finally tall enough to ride all the rides and he has _plans_ to gloat about it to Wes, who had always found his shortness a point of great amusement.

Numbers is playing scary background thug – the heavily armed edition – for one of Carlos' drug deals. Well, Numbers presumes it's drugs, either that or the doll business has gotten seriously cutthroat in the last two years. He doesn't much care either way, as long as he gets paid, though he wouldn't be against someone offering him a sample. His skin still doesn't seem to sit right with him, the bump he took this morning is wearing off faster than he anticipated and he figures he's got a few more months of discomfort before his brain finally kicks into the realisation he's not still in prison.

He's still feeling irritable about everything when the lights go out and muzzle flashes start lighting up the warehouse from all over. _All over._ Including places where there'd been no guys a minute ago. Double cross or something else entirely, Numbers doesn't give a shit, just grabs Carlos by the collar and drags him behind what he's hoping is cover, though it's hard to be sure when he has no real clue where all the shots are coming from.

Now they just gotta get out of there.

Numbers' plan is simple; kill every motherfucker between him and the door.

They get to the door with only minimal resistance and for the briefest moment when they step out into the midday sun he thinks they've gotten clear. But then a silhouette of someone tall blocks out the sun and raises his weapon.

They'd left him outside, where he could pick off anyone coming out into the blinding sun. _Smart,_ he thinks as a bullet hits him. He's grateful, later, that his face so surprised Wes that he'd pulled his shot, taking Numbers high in the shoulder instead of the killing shot he'd been aiming for. But right now he's in the dirt, clutching at his bloody shoulder in pain and looking up and thinking _of-fucking-course_ he'd make friends with the one kid that ended up becoming a giant.

Carlos yells something but it's lost in the sound of blood rushing in Numbers' ears.

“No, wait!” Numbers yells, but he's laying on the ground bleeding and no one listens to him.

He makes the decision in the split second it takes for Carlos to start raising his gun. Wes is frozen staring at Numbers like he can't believe his eyes and he's going to get his ass shot off spacing out like that.

It's not even a choice, Numbers had told Carlos right from the beginning – doesn't matter that the guy had probably thought Numbers was lying, playing up a vague mob connection for rep, to make a name for himself – Numbers had told him he'd always side with Fargo. With Wes.

And Carlos had been an alright guy, hadn't often made Numbers do anything he wasn't willing to do, didn't take it too personally when Numbers couldn't keep his asshole mouth shut. But, Carlos won't forgive the loss of his men, no matter how impersonal it was, this only ends when only one side is left standing.

Well, he's going to have to avoid Sioux City for, well, forever probably, he thinks and puts a bullet in Carlos' back.

 

That tall shadow looms over him and he wonders if maybe he fucked up, but then Wes is there leaning down to press a hand firmly against where he's bleeding.

“I've been looking for you,” Numbers says, smiling even though he can taste blood on his teeth. It's been nine years and suddenly it's like no time has passed at all as his hands still try to lift when he speaks. He'd had to break himself of the habit fast in juvie, where differences and quirks were targets to the bigger and meaner. Numbers might never have gotten much bigger, but damn did he get _meaner_.

Wes just frowns as he pulls Numbers up, and by the time he's helped Numbers to his car the rest of the Fargo men are exiting the warehouse.

They call a name - not Wes – and wave him over like Numbers isn't even there.

“What they'd call you?” He ask, voice breaking into a groan as he leans back.

'They call me -' He makes a sign that Numbers doesn't know, then spells 'W-R-E-N-C-H' and then repeats the sign again, a twisting of fingers, much like the aforementioned tool itself.

He doesn't ask, though he surely is intrigued, just mimics the sign as the syndicate men look pretty fucking darkly at Numbers from across the lot.

'Is this okay?' He signs clumsily and wishes he'd practiced more because right now he's not even sure if he's using the right signs, though the bloodloss surely isn't helping.

Wes - no - _Wrench_ looks back at the syndicate men, mouth flattening as he signs a quick 'Fuck them' and closes the door.

Numbers tries to watch what happens, really does, but as he presses his forehead against the glass, his eyes slide closed and he lets himself sink into the darkness of unconsciousness.

 


	2. the problem with coming home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings at the end

Numbers wakes to the feeling of being tied down and panics for the briefest of moments before his waking brain kicks in and he realizes it's only his wounded shoulder and arm strapped up tight. His short struggle produces a sharp sting where an IV is stuck in his arm.

Numbers gives himself a moment to take stock. He's on a couch that's seen better days in someone's shitty apartment; sparsely furnished with a sad little miniature cactus sitting in a pot on a dusty window ledge, like someone had wanted to make the place a home, but didn't even know where to start.

Numbers has nothing but the clothes on his back and a small assortment of pistols and knives that are in a neat, reachable pile on the floor.

A counter separates the living room where Numbers is from the kitchen area, and without moving he can still see the back of Wrench's head and a worn t-shirt stretched over broad shoulders as he tinkers around.

He turns around, spots Numbers watching him almost immediately, and lifts a coffee mug up with a question in his raised eyebrows. Numbers signs a tired 'Black, sugar' and he turns away again.

He doesn't know what to do with the way Wrench watches him, with his piercing eyes that seem like they should surely see all the way through him. He's not used to people watching him, flying under the radar has always been his _modus operandi._

Numbers sits up awkwardly, nearly overbalancing with his arm out of action.

'Do you need anything?' Wrench asks as he hands over a mug that's just this side of too warm, and Numbers lets the heat burn the palms of his hands.

Numbers shakes his head.

While he sips too hot coffee he learns he's going to be stuck in this apartment for the foreseeable future, until his shoulder is healed enough, until Fargo decides what to do with him. And he's mildly freaking out about how he's going to deal with this while under the careful watch of Wrench, who hasn't taken his eyes off him since he woke up. His fingers twitch like they want to start shaking. _Shit._

'You okay?' Wrench asks.

Stress and shock seem to be keeping his minor withdrawal symptoms at bay, but he knows eventually it's all going to come crashing down, and Numbers won't get fucked over by a shitty decision he made when he was twenty one and terrified.

'Fine.' Numbers hands lie as well his tongue.

Wrench is so goddamned tall. Offensively tall, as far as Numbers is concerned, but worse, he's grown up _hot_. It's hard reconciling the kid he'd left behind with the handsome man that's still got Wes' piercing blue eyes. And this is another thing he shouldn't be thinking about. No one likes a fag, and he's pretty sure junkie fag sits even lower on the totem pole of hate.

So he watches Wrench, looks for and finds the quirks and little things he'd missed in his years alone, but mostly he tries to ignore the impending itch in his veins. He can do this, he can hold on long enough til he has time to sneak away and score; no one needs to know.

 

But Numbers doesn't have any sort of good luck.

He goes through withdrawal the same time his shoulder gets infected – fucking up his perfect plan to ease himself off it in privacy – shame tries to burn bright under Wrench's silent gaze as he shakes and aches his way through hell. But he shoves it down, he'd _survived_ , he's not ashamed of that.

Wrench doesn't ask and Number is eternally grateful for that.

Tripoli would kill him for this, he thinks, no matter their connected past, this was a liability that wouldn't stand. Yet another way Wrench had saved him.

Numbers doesn't talk much about his past, even though Wrench had surely seen some of the prison ink Numbers had spattered around his torso when he'd patched him up.

Prison is where he'd picked up the habit. It's not something he's particularly proud of, but it had kept him steady. Helped him maintain something of an even keel. It all sounds like excuses, and maybe that's what they are, but all Numbers knows is he got into a lot less stupid fights when he had shit pumping through his veins, wrapping around his bones and smothering the rage that always seems ready to stick in his throat.

Once he was out – thank fuck for overcrowding – he cut back, as far back as he could without it effecting his aim but it had always loomed heavy over him, he knew it was this sort of shit that would come back to bite him in the ass.

He tries, just once, to explain, or apologize or, he doesn't know. He just tries to say something, but it falls apart in the face of Wrench's impassive face.

'I'm never doing this for you again.' Wrench signs, hands moving in sharp angry motions. 'Don't ever do this again.'

'I'm not. I don't,' Numbers can't find the words and it doesn't matter anyway because Wrench turns his back on him, effectively ending the conversation.

 

The fog clears on a Friday evening.

He groans as he sits up, pulls the comforter up over his shoulders, and glares at his surroundings with bleary eyes.

He's still in Wrench's shitty apartment he remembers that much - remembers Wrench tense shoulders as he'd turned away too – and he's alone, maybe he remembers Wrench shaking him awake to tell him he was going out. Though whether it was for work or personal Numbers doesn't know.

He takes the opportunity to explore his surroundings. Not that it takes long. Wrench's apartment is two rooms, a bath and a small open living room/kitchen area. Wrench's bedroom, when Numbers had peeked in from the doorway, is a mess of jeans and t-shirts and an unmade bed. The second room is empty save for a large duffel bag that's most likely full of guns from the shape of it, and an ice axe leaning against the wall just inside the door. Wrench's home life looks about as fulfilling as Numbers' had been. He makes himself a mug of coffee, too strong and too sweet really but finds himself drinking it anyway as he stares out the grime streaked window, hip resting beside the sad little cactus. It's a funny little thing, leaning sideways like it had halfway melted one day and there's a fine sheen of dust covering it.

“How are you not dead?” He asks it, poking at what looks like a smooth part – it's not – he sucks his finger and glares at it. _E_ _ven Wrench's fuckin_ _g_ _cactus hates him._

 

 

He figures he's got a long way to go before he can make up for this. But thing is, Number is _useful_ , there's a reason Carlos and Ricky had kept him around, for all their talk of debts and favors, if Numbers hadn't been a fucking _savant_ at sudden and swift violence, they'd have let him go. Even with all his obvious faults, he's fucking good at what he does, if he's given the chance he can make up for all the time he's been gone. Numbers is a fucking asset and he promises himself won't let this go without a fight.

 

He doesn't know what he expects, but he doesn't get gunned down or knifed in the back the minute Wrench leads him into the third story office, so he tries to relax somewhat.

Instead someone with an atrocious accent slaps him on the back with a “Heard a lot about you mate” - and then he's standing in front of the boss, whose older and somehow even more intimidating than he'd been standing over Numbers with a bloody knife.

Tripoli puts a hand on his shoulder and just like that he's home.

There's still some muttering, Numbers has been gone for _years_ , but between The Aussie's “They're just jealous, mate” and Wrench's steely look at anyone who so much as glances sideways at them, he settles in mostly okay.

But at least now that he's pretty sure he's not going to get buried in an unmarked grave somewhere off Interstate, he can safely feel that all this overprotectiveness is a little embarrassing.

 

Maybe Wrench and Numbers shouldn't be able to fall back into the easy friendship they had as kids. Almost a decade passed and Numbers doesn't know the stories for half the scars that litter Wrench's body now. But they do, falling into familiar patterns, what the years have changed seems less alienating and more fun to learn anew. His ASL comes back in stutters at first then, he finds his hands forming signs without thinking first. It's comfortable in a way he hasn't felt in a long time.

He's still crashed on Wrench's couch, but his funds situation at the moment is seriously lacking and Wrench doesn't seem to bothered by the imposition. Still. He's ready to _earn_.

 

His first few jobs for Fargo are easy pick-up and deliveries. Cakewalks for Numbers to be felt out for flaws and weaknesses. They drive from one end of the state to the other, in a seemingly unending series of parcel handoffs. They see more of random America than they do Fargo for the first six months.

There's a gas station some six hours from Bismark that serves coffee so thick and strong that it seems a spoon would stand in it. Wrench puts his cup down after a single sip and doesn't touch it again, just stares suspiciously at Numbers as he drinks his own without comment or falter. It's not that bad actually.

Twenty minutes out of St Louis, they're driving through suburbia getting a feel of the area before their job that night when Wrench spots something silver and shiny in the distance.

'It's a fork.' He turns onto a street suddenly and they're, yeah, apparently they're hunting this thing down.

'How? It's probably some office's shitty modern art.' All Numbers can see is a smooth silver circle rising above a brick wall.

'It's a fork.'

'It's not a fork. If it's a fork, where's it's prongs?'

'It's upside down.' Wrench is driving mostly with his knees now, navigating the sharp turns of the tiny streets as he drives unerringly towards the silver _thing,_ and if Numbers dies for _modern art_ he's going to flip a fucking table.

'What?' Numbers asks as it finally comes into view, and _oh_ , it _is_ a fork, but, “ _Why?”_

Wrench just laughs and drives on.

The only truly exciting thing to happen in that six months is when Numbers is handed three kilo squares of uncut brown and Wrench eyes him cautiously out of the corner of his eye for the entire drive to the drop off.

He'd like to say he doesn't feel the rush of desire - or an aching need - that he's not tempted, but mostly he's just relieved to have the little parcels out of his hands. Wrench never brings it up, but there's something easier in the way he's driving after they drop it off. Numbers even catches Wrench looking across at him, _smiling._ Numbers just pushes his shades further up his nose and makes a mission of turning the heat up as an excuse to ignore him.

 

He must not be fucking up too badly because their next assignment is a bit of a step up. Some guy's run off with a payment that's not his and the only parameters they have is get the money back and don't call any attention on themselves. The boss doesn't want a mess, but it also doesn't sound like anyone would be too upset if he disappeared off the face of the earth, as long as no one ever found him.

They find the guy's apartment easily enough, but nobody's home when they break in, so they start rifling through his shit while they wait.

Numbers has a handful of glass ornaments that had been sitting a top of the box he's inspecting when the front door opens and their guy walks in.

For a moment they stare at each other; breaths held, neither moving.

Then he runs and Numbers groans because he does not get paid enough to engage in fucking _foot_ pursuits. He shouts uselessly to Wrench whose in the room adjacent, and tosses the ornaments in his hand through the doorway, _that_ at least should catch Wrench's attention. Then he's off running.

He catches sight of the stairwell's metal door swinging closed and bolts down the hall towards it. Numbers slams through the door, looking up to check that the asshole hasn't tried to be a clever fucker, and then looks down and laughs a truly horrible laugh.

On the next landing, laying crumpled and twisted, is the money stealing, no luck motherfucker.

He's gasping, fingers and feet twitching little minute jerks, his breath coming out in short, wet sobs. He doesn't move as Numbers comes close but his eyes show mostly white as they roll to watch Numbers crouch beside him.

Wrench is at the top of the stairs, Numbers can see him sign something from the corner of his eye but its just movement, and Numbers isn't turned around enough to read a meaning. He ignores him in favor of the crumpled pile of human idiot in front of him.

“You've seen better days, my friend.” Numbers says, cajoling, almost kind. “Now, we can help you, call an ambulance, get you help, but you gotta tell us where the money is. Can you do that for me?”

He blinks, then gives the slightest of nods.

“Where's the money, kid?”

The guy's eyes flutter, tears leaking from the corners, and Numbers can see him thinking, dreaming, wishing for all the ways he'd hoped this would go, all the ways that didn't end with him laying broken in a stairwell that smells of piss.

Finally he nods again, a barely there shift of his head, then he speaks one wet sounding word through red stained lips. “Bed.”

Numbers repeats the word with his hands to Wrench who disappears with the sound of the metal fire door clanging shut.

The guy chokes, coughs, the sound of grinding bone, his breath coming out in shorter and shorter bursts of air.

Numbers watches; impassive, uncaring.

Behind him the door sounds again, but he doesn't look up, instead he continues his watch as Wrench's heavy footsteps come closer.

When the guy's breath stops, when his chest no longer expands, Numbers looks up. Wrench has come to stop three steps up, his hands still. Now he's just watching Numbers. Watching like he's wondering if Numbers has the stomach for this. But Numbers is no wilting daisy, these last couple of months have been the calmest his ever had, and as for squeamish, like Numbers hadn't been the one holding the many suspected rat's jaws open while Carlos' psycho big brother rooted around with a pair of pliers. Good old Ricky always did like some impromptu dentistry.

When it's over, when the guy's eyes have dried up and fogged over, Numbers stands back up, looks up at Wrench and signs a 'Good?'

They hadn't made much of a mess in the guy's apartment, what little they had would be easily tidied, with this guy having a tragic accident, no witnesses and no need to touch the body. They can walk out, let nature take it's course and no one would even know to look for them.

Wrench looks down at the man, at Numbers, and with the hand not holding three inches of hundred dollar bills bundled tightly together with elastic bands, repeats the sign back. _Good._

 


	3. a step back, a step forward

The next job is horrible. Flat out plain fucking horrible.

It's supposed to be another standard pick up and drop off. But when they get to the place, the guy that's there is twitchy and acting weird. He's talking too much, hands flapping nervously, and Numbers would be prepared to write it off as another dealer sampling _way_ too much of his own product, but there's a good eight plastic wrapped bricks on the table between them and he's not made one move to hand the stuff over.

The guy keeps talking as Wrench's eyes narrow and narrow til it looks like he's straight up doing a Clint Eastwood impression, then he signs 'This isn't the guy.'

Numbers looks at him, gives him a half shrug that's more agreeing than anything else.

'Tie him up, sober him up?' He suggests, because it seems like a decent plan, just in case this fucker really is the person they're supposed to meet.

He turns back and the fucker must _know_ because he goes from chattering a mile a minute and just _rabbits_.

Numbers is mostly expecting it so he's already dodging around the table, ready to tackle him to the floor and see if he can't knock some sense loose.

But then the asshole throws a bag of product at Number's face, its plastic covering splits and suddenly its everywhere. And he's blind and choking and he can hear the guy running off and where the hell is Wrench?

It's fucked up, but it's the junkie past of his that makes him panic, but its also that same past that maybe saves him. That's got to be the only reason he doesn't overdose on the amount of product he forcibly ingests. He's viciously glad that Wrench can't hear the shout that's more of a sob and all wretched terror when he realises what the guy they're chasing has just thrown at him. What's in his mouth, up his nose, in his _eyes._

Wrench might not hear Numbers, but apparently the face he's making is enough to make him stop chasing the asshole and check on Numbers. He just waves him off, mostly blind, he clenches his teeth and signs an angry and hopefully intelligible _Just fucking kill him_.

He must get the general gist because he can hear Wrench's heavy footsteps leaving the room. Leaving him alone. He stumbles over to the sink and turns the faucet on full blast. Good water pressure in this dump, he thinks wildly as he shoves his face as far under the rushing water as he can.

Five minutes later he feels like a drowned rat and can mostly see, even if his eyes won't stop burning or watering in a fun juxtaposition of misery.

Finally he gives up on trying to wash off what's already in his bloodstream and he turns and slumps down to the floor, leaning heavily against the sink cabinet. He can already feel it in him.

He feels sick.

He feels _amazing_.

He should go after Wrench.

Help.

Or something.

Wrench finds him twenty minutes later, still slumped against the wall, with what's probably a slack jawed look on his face. He barely registers the other man's presence. Something waves in the corner of his vision but it doesn't mean much to him right now so he ignores it. Then there's hands on him.

He thinks it's probably Wrench, but that might just be because he wants it to be. His partner had good hands, big, warm and so fucking capable. Hands you could trust.

One grips his shoulder, shakes it for a bit, gentle at first, rougher when Numbers doesn't react. Finally they stop shaking him, the movement unsettles his stomach so the sudden stop is nice. He smiles as those hands find their way to his neck, and press down firmly where his heartbeat jumps.

For the briefest moment the hands slip up, cup his face, a thumb strokes across his skin.

And then they're gone; he definitely whines this time - want overshadowing shame – he doesn't know exactly what he wants, just knows he _wants_.

The hands sign something - _Up! -_ and Numbers nods but doesn't move, smiles instead. That doesn't seem to be what Wrench wants though because he repeats the motion, sharper with more conviction.

There's blood all up one of Wrench's sleeves, and Number smiles again, the sight of all that red makes him happy even if he forgets why right now.

Wrench must give up trying to communicate with him because those hands stop moving, instead they slip under his arms, haul him upwards. Numbers gets his feet under him, he's proud of that, though he stumbles like he's carrying to much weight and the movement upsets something in his stomach, making the warm feeling he'd been floating on sour into a queasy roiling feeling. He doesn't want to move he wants to be back on the floor and why is Wrench making him do this?

 

Numbers closes his eyes, naively thinking if he can't see anything, he won't feel anything.

 

Wrench gets him to the car, he hits his head against the door frame before Wrench finally gets him in the back of the car, but he doesn't feel it, not really, just curls up, presses his face into the threadbare suede that covers the backseat and tries to chase that waning warm feeling. He itches with an indeterminable need. Wants to tear off his skin to stop the feeling.

Wrench disappears, then appears back in the drivers seat, Numbers stares at his partner's ginger hair, and tense shoulders.

“You should fuck me.” he tells the back of that head, completely missing a pair of worried eyes watching him in the mirror.

 

Numbers doesn't remember getting to the motel, or getting out of the car, just feeling cold. So fucking cold then something warms him, and he feels a weird and unfamiliar sort of safe.

He wakes to a heavy weight wrapped around him, holding him still through shakes and warming him like a furnace. He feels like he's been comatose for a thousand years and needs another eternity of rest before he might feel remotely human again.

But when the weight sighs and pushes a nose into the back of Number's neck, he snaps awake with a full body jolt. He tenses and arms tighten around him for a moment as he tries to reach for one of the knives he's usually carrying.

Numbers' fingers brush against bare skin instead of the knife sheath he'd usually find and feels panic clawing in the back of his exhausted brain.

He's trying to get sleep heavy limbs to move, to fight, to get up and run, when the person behind him sits up and Wrench's hands come into his view to sign a sleepy 'calm down'.

Then he's rolled over and Wrench is sitting up beside him and Numbers tries very hard not to think of it as Wrench looking down on him.

'How long?' Numbers signs it slowly, his arms feel like lead, moving them almost too much effort.

'It's still Wednesday.' Wrench answers, as if Numbers can even remember what day it _was._ He's still frowning when Wrench reiterates with, 'six, seven hours.'

'Do you remember what happened?'

He nods tiredly, the motion setting off a chain reaction of physical feelings that all indicate he's going to be throwing up very soon.

'You okay?' It's a gentle question and Numbers wonders how bad he's looked these past hours to take Wrench's frustration away like that.

'I was stupid.' He signs his answer and rolls back over so he doesn't have to see Wrench agree with him.

But Wrench just wraps a hand around his shoulder and rolls him back.

'You need a shower.'

'I need -' He chokes mid-retort as another wave of nausea hits.

They make it to the bathroom before Number's body finally fully revolts and he ends up hunched over the toilet instead.

Eight hours after the fact he's wrapped around a filthy motel toilet begging for fucking death.

 

He doesn't die.

 

He does spend at least an hour ranting at Wrench – half signing, half cursing out loud – for killing the drug dosing motherfucker so quickly instead of dumping in the jerk in the trunk for Numbers to exact some retribution of his own. Like a good friend would have done.

Numbers scowls as blackly as he can while pale and sweating when he catches Wrench's 'What the fuck could you do, like this? _'_

“He'd keep!” He snarls into the cool tile, nausea maybe finally waning, ' _He'd keep,'_ signing it for double the emphasis.

 

They drag out the assignment, hold out til Numbers is back on his feet and sipping black coffee, living off that bitter drink and not much else because he was probably only going to throw it up later anyway. Maybe he spends the following days wrapped up in too many layers of clothing, his meagre armor against Wrench's alternating disappointed and worried faces. Like he still thinks Numbers is going to die, like he can't work out why Numbers would have ever chosen to do this to himself.

 

He's still feeling shitty about the whole thing when Fargo rings with a new assignment. Numbers' hands are still shaking and the only thing he's eaten in the last three days is two jumbo packets of Scrunyuns.

 

'At least I'm not throwing up all the time _.'_ He signs to his more silent than usual partner, half the way into a six hour drive to Buttfuck, South Dakota.

It's the only acknowledgement that he's willing to make that this state he's in won't last forever, even though at the moment the only reason he's not throwing up is because he's been living off scrunyuns and over sweet black coffee which seem to be the only things that don't turn his stomach.

Wrench's mouth doesn't so much as twitch, his hands stay still and silent where they grip the steering wheel. But twenty minutes later he pulls into a diner instead of a drivethrough – a peace offering or a sneaky fuck you because Numbers is still having something of a tenuous relationship with his stomach and the issue of filling it with food.

Still. It's nice to get out of the car, stretch his legs. Attempt to at least eat something that doesn't come in a sealed foil bag. Watch Wrench get bitchy about people's fashion choices like his suede fringe jacket wearing ass had any room to judge.

Later, when all the conversations have been had with all the people that need talking to, they've called in a successful mission back to the office and the sun's long gone from the sky, Wrench comes back with two cups of shitty gas station coffee and Numbers smiles what feels like the first real smile he's made for years. He wants a warm shower and a warmer bed, and he's pretty sure there's still blood in his beard but as he wraps chilled fingers around hot styrofoam he thinks, he'll take this.

They've still got a long nights drive after an even longer day's work, and snow is just starting to gather in the air, but a hot coffee and the glint of his partner's forearms from the passing street lamp and Number's almost feeling downright sentimental.

 

When they get back, Numbers throws himself back into work with the eagerness of someone who thinks he fucked up and needs to atone. On edge and ready to kill at the slightest of provocations, overeager in all the ways that make a good employee but not great for long term plans. He gets a pat on the back from the boss but Wrench's mouth has been a flatline of unhappiness because he knows the real reason Numbers is running himself ragged. So he tries to reign himself in, to tamp down the itch in his bones, be the sort of partner that isn't reckless to the point of suicidal because he's jonesing for a drug that he kicked six fucking years ago.

 

'This wasn't your fault.' Wrench signs on one of those late nights where they're home but sleep is avoiding them and instead Wrench is pottering around the kitchen while Numbers sits at the counter and lays his cheek against the cool countertop.

Wrench's face is too serious for how tired Numbers feels right now.

'I was stupid, I should have-' Larger hands wrap around his, forcing them to silence.

'It wasn't your fault.'

Numbers looks away until Wrench's open palms slapping on the counter force him to look back.

'Don't get yourself killed over this.' He pauses, like he's not sure he should say anymore, then carries on regardless. 'Don't you leave me alone because you feel guilty over something that wasn't your fault.'

Numbers don't know what to say. He'd, well, he'd kind of figured that Wrench had blamed him for this whole mess, like somehow it was his fuck ups from the past that had made this happen. He feels his shoulders slump, he still feels stupidly guilty, like there was something he should've done differently, choices he shouldn't have made. It was somehow relieving to know that Wrench might be pissed, but maybe he didn't hate Numbers.

Wrench's feet shift like he wants to leave, his face moving like he was chewing on an emotion he didn't like.

'I'm sorry,' Numbers signs and Wrench shakes his head like he's coming to the end of his patience.

The motion unsticks something in Number's chest, a familiar fondness that he's tried to ignore and his hands are signing before he really thinks about it.

'I know you'd be hopeless without me.'

His lips twisting into a gentle teasing grin.

'You fucking asshole, _you_ ' _d_ be useless without me doing all the heavy lifting.' Wrench snipes backs, but he's grinning back, falling into the easy banter they'd had as smart mouthed brats.

 


	4. the art of giving in

Their next job is another spectacular fuck up of a mission. At least this one they walk out of practically unscathed, Numbers might get into more than his fair share of trouble, but years of experience have taught him he is nothing if not resilient. Numbers likes to think he's a hard motherfucker to kill and there's a long line of dead bodies behind him that holds testament to that faith.

 

They don't find out what causes it. Maybe the guy got a better offer, maybe he'd just gotten scared by Wrench and Numbers and he's decided to cut his losses and throw his lot in with someone else. Either way their meeting that's supposed to be merely that – a friendly meeting – turns into an ambush. Doesn't really matter the reason, he'd made his decision and Numbers and Wrench have to survive the fallout.

The meeting is at a strip club, between the rundown inner-city neighbourhood blocks and the hipster gentrification that's creeping in on them. It's not an ideal place for a business meeting, but they didn't set the meet-up, and they're really just here to facilitate future business deals, to give Fargo's terms and hear the man's answer.

It's not overly crowded – which considering the early hour, is probably not that surprising – but there seems to be more than just the regulars and midday perverts.

It's not enough to make Numbers walk straight back out but it puts his back up, and if the way Wrench's stance has gone loose as he casually makes his way to the bar while taking in the entire club, he's feeling it too.

Numbers gives the room a once over again, the man they're supposed to be meeting is sitting in one of the corner booths, but the booth either side him seem unusually populated. _Fuck_. It's not like they can just leave because something felt wrong. Maybe it's fucking midday dollar dance day, who the fuck knows.

A group of red faced kids that look too young to be in here are inching towards the main stage as Numbers walks past, he hears them egging each other on and wonders vaguely what it felt like to be so young.

Inexperience saves him.

One of the gunmen opens fire while they're split up, the first shot hits the man behind the bar, barely missing Wrench's head and then he's throwing himself over the bar for cover as Numbers automatically goes into a half crouch and firing back even though he can't really see how many there are and there's screaming and _whose fucking idea was it to open fire in a crowded,_ _dimly lit club_ _?_

He tries to find Wrench in the chaos of screaming and hollering of women and men, but he's lost sight of him, and the majority of gunfire seems to be presently aimed at him and the rapidly disintegrating table he's hiding behind, so he can't do much but keep his head down and look for a way out. Once he's free and clear he can meet back up with Wrench and hunt down this fucker and as many of the gun toting little friends that he has with him.

At this point he's closer to the stairs leading to the second floor than he is to the exit, which isn't ideal but the club's not exactly great for cover and Numbers isn't looking to get shot in the back anytime soon.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks, firing blindly as he makes a run, jump and tumble towards the stairs. It sounds like he hits someone, but there's still a handful of innocent bystanders in the room so he's not celebrating just yet, instead he just gets back to on he's feet and uses the adrenaline that's pounding in his veins to take the stairs two at a time. He doesn't get nearly enough cardio for all this bullshit, and he's gasping with burning lungs while he swaps magazines.

He can't hear the booming shots of Wrench's Colt anymore which hopefully means he's gotten out of the club, the smart bet would be to get back to the car where there's an arsenal hidden under the back seat. They hadn't exactly been carrying for a gunfight and the only reason Numbers hasn't run out of ammo yet is because unlike today, last time he'd worn this overcoat he _had_ been fixing to shoot a fair few people and there had still been a couple of spare magazines floating around his pockets.

Plaster chips spray every which way as they fire up the stairs, but none of it hits Numbers as he fires back down and is rewarded with the cry and thump of hitting someone. He fires a few more rounds down, but staying here isn't a good plan for longevity. He's already running low on ammo and he needs to get the fuck out of here.

So he fires down again, more covering fire than anything, and pushes onwards. He finds a room with a window and a door that locks from the inside and finds himself sitting on the window ledge trying to judge the drop. _It's not that far_ , Numbers tells himself as he lowers himself as far down as he'll go.

He hangs for a moment, and then drops.

His shoes hit pavement sending a jolt through his ankles but nothing hurts badly, so he ignores it in favor of trying to work out the best direction to go. He can already hear sirens, much too loud, which means they're entirely too close, this neighbourhood isn't that great but it's close enough to nicer ones that the cop's response time is probably going to be good.

It'd had been part of the reason he hadn't exactly expected an ambush. This, Numbers thinks, is what he gets for expecting people to not be completely fucking stupid.

He looks down the alley in time to see a fire door slam open and a man come running out. It's not Wrench and it doesn't seem like he has anyone with him. Numbers squints at him.

The guy's day must be going as shitty as Numbers' because he's all alone, doing the shifty looking this way and that, the nervous twitching that people not used to doing things themselves tend to get when they're suddenly alone. Well. Whatever. Today might not be a totally loss after all.

“Hey!” He yells, the guy looks back, enough that Numbers can clock his face, it's definitely the guy they were supposed to meet, and grins. “Fargo has decided to decline your offer!”

The words are mostly drowned out by his gun firing, but the guy's already trying to run as the bullet hits him. It hits him high in the chest, not that it matters, he falls all the same and Numbers walks over to him and puts another bullet in his skull to be sure.

Never trust a body shot.

He pockets his gun and starts moving. With the cops coming there's only a small window to get the fuck out but as he rounds the front of the building he can already see flashing red and blue coming from both directions so he turns heel and starts walking the other way. By the time he's put a good distance between himself and the strip club, he's in Hipster-Ville and he can see that the police have started blocking the roads, no doubt checking anyone trying to run.

Numbers gives himself a moment to really fucking worry. Not for himself; he has no way to contact Wrench, no way to know if he got out, or if he was caught, or, _fuck_ , shot. But no, Numbers tells himself as he turns away from the roadblock, Wrench is smart and, more importantly, _good_ at what he does, he'll have got the fuck out as soon as he saw the red and blue lights.

He catches sight of his reflection in a window and pauses to slick his hair back into something presentable, until at worst he looks like he got caught out in the wind, and not just participated in a gunfight.

He attempts to dust off his knees til the material is only scuffed but as clean as they'll come, and he finds himself grinning at the myriad of dirty excuses he might use if someone drew attention to it. Now he just has to lay low.

 

Wrench finds him casually sipping coffee in a cafe not more than two and a half blocks from what looks like an apocalypse of red and blue. He walks in like a man on a mission and hauls Numbers up from his chair, then, just when Numbers has convinced himself that Wrench is going to slug him one, he wraps his arms around Numbers instead.

The look on Wrench's face is so intense that Numbers actually feels himself double check in his mind that he hasn't fucked up somewhere. He hasn't, he knows he hasn't. The cops had started blocking roads too soon for him to get past, but he's a well dressed white guy with a good ID and what little blood got on him is camouflaged by the thick black wool of his overcoat. In an hour or two – when the police are less confident in the idea that they'd managed to trap the killers in their cordon – he'll pass easily through whatever poorly manned checkpoint they left up. He hadn't done anything wrong.

The cafe's patrons had been staring at the giant of a man stalking up to another man and forcing him out of his chair, but they find somewhere else to look after the hug. And that what it is. He is being hugged.

Numbers very pointedly doesn't think about how long it's been since someone wrapped their arms around him in a way that wasn't to incapacitate him or haul his mostly unconscious body somewhere. He raises a hand awkwardly to pat Wrench's back and has no thoughts whatsoever about how nice it feels or the ridiculous strength in the muscles he's touching.

Wrench finally pulls back he looks red faced now it's obvious that Numbers is fine. Numbers could let him stew in this embarrassment, he might even deserve it for making Numbers think he'd done something wrong. He should. It'd be more in line with their usual interactions, but instead he finds himself smiling, settling back down and sliding his plate of pancakes he was probably never going to eat across and asking 'You want something?'

Wrench blinks at him, then seems to shake himself and sits opposite Numbers before signing an almost shy 'Coffee?'

Numbers studies Wrench out the corner of his eye a he catches a waitresses attention and motions for another coffee to be brought over. He's lost his hideous fringed jacket, which is good, not just because it's noticeable enough that he doesn't like their chances of passing any checkpoint while wearing it, but also because it offended Numbers' very soul. And if the only thing they achieved this mission was the demise of the fringed monstrosity then Numbers – probably just Numbers to be perfectly frank – will consider the whole thing a success.

 

Wrench doesn't say anything and Numbers politely doesn't gloat which he thinks might actually be saintly him, just buys him a better jacket on their way out of town. It's probably not something Numbers would ever catch himself wearing but it's dark, nice and the only one that they both don't completely disagree on. Best of all there's not a single fringe on it and Wrench doesn't scowl at the fit as he flexes his shoulders like he wants to tear it apart.

That's the end of it until a parcel comes for Wrench's apartment renting alter ego, a large box with a return address from Aberdeen and Numbers just _knows_.

He's still thinking of all the long term complications that might arise if he just takes it back outside and sets it on fire when Wrench sees him and snatches the box – and his day dreams of a glorious bonfire – from his hands.

If his fantasy of a well dressed Wrench at his side weren't being destroyed he'd be really impressed at the ingenuity – and audacity – of posting evidence out of the search area. So he doesn't say anything, even if Wrench's smug grin as he pulls the jacket out and on, and the way the fringes fly as he flicks the collar a few more times than necessary says he delights in Numbers' pain.

The collar is still crooked – perhaps from overzealous flicking – and Numbers' hands move without his permission to straighten it.

He freezes, but his hands are still on Wrench's jacket collar, pressed up against warm skin and there's no way to laugh this off, not while he's frozen like this.

He avoids Wrench's eyes even though he can _feel_ him looking at him. He refuses to look up into the intense blue eyes that could make a man start talking before Numbers even had a chance to begin threatening.

Disengage, he thinks, just cut and run, come back in a couple of hours, in the morning, when enough time had passed that they can pretend to remember this differently, something embarrassing, or something innocent,

He tries to extricate himself, hands yanking back too quick to be anything casual, but Wrench snags a wrist before he make a quick escape. A thumb presses against the pulse on the inside of his wrist, firm, then lightly stroking and Numbers finally looks up.

He can still back out of this, he tells himself. He still has time to shove Wrench away and never mention this again. But he's _tired_ , it's late and if he walks out now he's going to spend the rest of the night drunk and cold and very hopefully failing to get laid.

That's what he usually does when his stupid _thing_ for Wrench gets too real. He fucks strangers, gets fucked too, if he thinks he can take them if it gets too rough, just to prove he still can. That he isn't broken.

But he's not young anymore, he's pickier and more damaged than he'll ever admit out loud but what he's attracted to triggers half his hang ups with strangers, because - and he's a bit of an idiot to only realise this now – he's been looking for Wrench in stranger's faces for longer than he's strictly comfortable remembering.

Because he can't just trust a stranger trawling for sex in a seedy bar. He can't trust those people, not like he _knows_ Wrench would never hurt him, not like that at least.

He still has time to back out of this but he's not sure he wants it.

So he lets Wrench put hands on him, lets him pull Numbers close.

As first kisses go, it's not toe curling, it's tentative and soft and over far too soon. Then Wrench is pulling back, looking at Numbers with those piercing blue eyes. He's searching for something in in Numbers' eyes and Numbers has no idea what but he's hoping he'll find it because if Wrench is the one that backs off, if Wrench leaves him hanging right now, Numbers knows he'll do something stupid and damaging tonight. And it's unfair to place that in Wrench's unknowing hands but Numbers is not a good man and his fucked up psyche makes him a selfish asshole more often than not.

And _fuck_ he shouldn't be doing this anyway. Wrench deserves better than what little grossly inadequate expressions of fondness Numbers is capable of. Wrench deserves to be someone's equal, not keeper and if Numbers had even a shred of soul he'd break this off right now, end it before it begins. Go back to being miserable asshole and silent keeper, and pretend this never happened.

But Numbers traded his soul long ago for blood on his hands and a steady paycheck, and he's never been all that regretful – he wouldn't know how to be anything else anyway – so he closes that distance.

Puts lips to skin and goes about seeing if he can make Wrench lose himself as much as Numbers has.

 

Numbers wakes first, comfortably tired and sore.

There's an icepick leant up against the wall, its handle had snapped in half some months ago after a particularly hard strike into a mark's foots and has floated around the living room until Numbers had stubbed his toe on it and cursed up as storm and tossed it angrily into a wall and Wrench had dutifully moved it out of sight.

So. They'd ended up in Wrench's room.

Numbers wonders how much he should be freaking out right now but then Wrench's arm snakes around his chest and pulls him closer and Numbers thinks maybe this is okay. Maybe this is could be not awful, which is a surprise. He's not exactly so flush with friends that the idea of screwing a friendship up with fucking doesn't send a wave of worry and dread to wash over him. But he's learnt how it felt to have his mouth on Wrench while he groaned with desire and his partner is a comfortable weight, half sprawled on top of, half wrapped around Numbers like he was some sort of teddy bear. He thinks he'd make every mistake again if it meant he still ended up here. He's going to have to admit to himself sometime that there's a sappy fuck lurking inside him somewhere, but for now he's content to close his eyes and enjoy the sleep in.

Later Wrench will ask _'Boundaries?'_ with fingers gently stroking across the script that runs across Numbers' collarbone like a barbed wire between Numbers and the rest of the world.

Numbers will shrug, fingers twitching as he tries to decide how to explain it. Finally he'll settle on ' _People think they're entitled things.'_ but looks away before Wrench can ask or say anything more.

His face will curl up into something uncaring, something hard, before he turn back and signs,

_'Young.'_

_'Stupid.'_

Like there wasn't a connection between the person Numbers had been and the one he was now.

Now Wrench won't ask again, but some nights Numbers will go to sleep to soft fingers stroking over those inked letters and it'll feel something close to peaceful.

 


	5. a lesson in revenge 1/2

Sometimes jobs are long. Sometimes short. Sometimes good. Sometimes messy. And sometimes they go fuck up from the beginning and only get steadily worse. It's the nature of the game. They're mostly sent after people who know they've fucked up and they're trying to be ready for the consequences. Numbers and Wrench's job is to be the straight out of nowhere Hand of God consequence that there was no preparing for.

It works out in their favour a good percentage of the time. And sometimes. It truly does not.

This is one of those times.

It starts off with a man whose greed smothers his common-sense when he runs off with a package that belongs to the Boss.

The mission parameters are simple. Retrieve the package. Send a message. A stern message.

But it's complicated from the beginning because the man isn't just a lackey, or a some outsider who had ripped them off. No, Mr Bridge wasn't no small name in the syndicate, he had even ate at the table from time to time.

Bossman was _pissed_. The look in his eye reminded Numbers of a time long _long_ passed, when he'd been small and held on the ground and hurt. He'd come out of nowhere, and then hurting had been replaced by a spray of red and Numbers had learnt that there were scarier things in the world than bullies. That day, Number had resolved to become something like that. He's still not sure if he ever managed it.

His stomach still twists when the boss' eyes flash like that, but he doesn't let his nonchalant outward appearance shift, and he hopes maybe that's half the battle.

Mr Bridge knew they were coming, either by educated guess or he still had some syndicate adjacent contacts that he hadn't burnt. They get pinged the minute they hit town, what's supposed to be a quiet information gathering outing quickly escalates into an all out bar brawl that they can barely tear themselves free of before the cops show.

They retreat back to the car, Wrench driving sedately away as flashing red and blue lights fly past.

 

In the motel bathroom Numbers nurses what he severely hopes isn't a broken nose, dabbing away the blood with wet tissues, while Wrench paces back and forth in the tiny bathroom, amped up.

'You fucking asshole.' He signs with bloody fingers with an added gesture towards Wrench's wholly undishevelled appearance.

He just gets Wrench's toothiest grin back, because Wrench is a bastard that delights in Numbers' pain.

He leans back over the sink, gingerly tries to wash the coagulated lumps of blood out of his beard.

He thinks optimistically that maybe his nose isn't broken, but it keeps dribbling blood and he considers just giving up and shoving tissue up it until it fucking stops. His shirt is a complete write off, it's managed to catch most of the excess gore that made it past Numbers' beard, and, Numbers notices as he looks down, his fucking suit jacket is ripped. Fucking great.

'That felt personal _,_ ' Wrench signs when he catches Numbers' eye in the mirror.

Numbers turns, leaning against the sink, signing 'It did seem a little personal _,_ ' agreeing with Wrench's assessment of their evening's excitement.

'This job is going to fucking suck.' Numbers signs with one hand as he tries to tenderly dry his face off.

'Guess we're doing this the hard way.' Number catches most of Wrench's sentence as he leaves the doorway. A moment later there's the familiar sounds of an assault rifle being put together in the bedroom.

“Guess so,” Numbers mutters to the mirror. It's been ages since they had to go in hard, he might even be looking forward to it if he didn't have such a weird feeling about this job.

Wrench is slapping a magazine in his AR-15 when Numbers comes out of the bathroom and he looks up in time to see Numbers announce “Right, what do we know about this squirrelly fuck?”

 

 

Numbers spots them too late – or maybe it's one of those times when even if he had made all the right decisions he'd still be shit out of luck – but he spots his tail and immediately curses himself for not making them sooner. They'd flipped a coin on who would go out for supplies while the winner checked up on a supposed lead on where Mr Bridge might be showing and it's looking like he might be a double loser tonight. He hopes Wrench is still out, but on the off chance he's back at the motel already, he needs to let Wrench know it's more than likely compromised.

Numbers digs his hand deeper into the warm pocket of his coat, fingers feeling for his cell phone, trying to blindly remember the unlocking sequence, while watching the two goons trying to box him in. He crosses the road with a sharp turn, ignoring the honking horn and squealing brakes of the car he's just stepped in front of, he fingerfeels the cell's keypad and types out what he hoping says _get out_.

He doesn't want to pull a gun on a crowded Friday night street, but he will if it comes to it.

He runs right into their trap.

“How you doing kiddo?” Carlos' brother has started to go grey at the temples, but Ricky doesn't look any less dangerous than he did the day Numbers met him.

Number's gut drops and in his surprise the two men following him body slam into him. He shakes off his surprise, trying to shrug off their holds, trying to get enough space to pull his gun. But there's no room, the assholes don't let up, grappling with an unbreakable grip til he's in a lock that's threatening to dislocate his shoulders with every further struggle.

They yank up on his arms twisting them up as Ricky pats him down, takes Numbers' Walther and cellphone from him.

“What the fuck is this?” Ricky asks as the man behind him tightens his grip and Numbers swears he can hear his shoulder creaking. It takes a moment or two for his eyes to adjust to cell's screen waving in front of his face.

 

_**GRTNOBOAT** _

 

Well. Not quite what he had meant to send.

“Don't you hate that predictive text?” He says with his sharpest, toothiest grin, the one that usually gets him punched. It doesn't let him down this time either, Ricky's face darkens and the man holding Numbers twists his arms forcing him up straight, gives his boss an easy target to hit.

He sags, shoulders complaining now they're holding all his weight, choking and winded with the sinking realization that he's not going to get out of this.

“Numbers, it's been a while,” Ricky says, his hand settling on Numbers' chest, thumb pressing down on the hollow of his throat painfully, threatening. “Now. Let's go somewhere private and have a conversation.”

He tries one last time to get free, pushing forwards with a sharp sudden movement, forehead connecting with Ricky's. The man holding him's grip slips with the suddenness of it and Numbers uses his new found freedom to snatch his cell from Ricky's hand.

There's no time to do anything, he has no cards to play and no space to run, but he can keep them from luring Wrench in, he can do that. With all his might, abused shoulders complaining, he throws the phone as hard as he can, hears the satisfying crunch of it smashing and shattering against brick.

And then Ricky's back in his face, and Numbers throws a punch, swings as much as he can until his arms are caught back up and he can do no more.

Something hits him in the back of his head and he falls, feels his shoulders ache sharply and he gets the impression of a car, before he's tumbled into the trunk. The lid hits his head as it slams shut and darkness crashes over him completely.

 

By the time his eyes refocus he's tied to a chair in one of the warehouses they'd cased that day. Mr Bridge stands smugly to the side as Ricky looms over, looking murderously happy.

“Now, Mr Bridge and I came to an agreement. He gets Fargo's shipping contacts, and I,” Ricky snarls, getting low, getting in Numbers' face. “ _I_ get the rat scumfuck that shot my baby brother in the back.”

Well. There's not much Numbers can say to that.

“See you around Mr Numbers.” Bridge says, then pauses, smug like he thinks he's a clever fucker. “Actually, I guess I won't.”

“I'll have your fucking head, asshole!” Numbers yells at Bridge's retreating back, straining at the ropes binding him.

 

“Now I hear you're working with a big deaf fella now. What's it like working with a retard?” Ricky asks once Bridge is gone.

Numbers doesn't struggle, he's not sure his shoulder joints can take much more abuse, instead he settles for a dark glower. But Ricky just laughs.

“I've got all night _cabron_ , and an invested interest in make you scream.”

“Man, I don't know anything.” Numbers says, which is true, he has no need, nor has he ever really wanted to know anything beyond the details of his next job. “I'm just here to retrieve a package and put Bridge in the ground.”

“This package?” Ricky leers, waving exactly what Numbers and Wrench are looking for.

“That's the one.” Numbers quips before getting rewarded with another punch. It splits swollen skin and warm blood runs heavy down his face, matting his beard and soaking into his collar.

“If you're not going to be helpful, maybe we find your partner instead. They say he can't hear, don't speak much neither, maybe we should see if we can't make him scream.”

Ricky leans down to look in Numbers' eyes, then growls in disgust at Numbers' glare.

“Looks like he needs some more incentive, boys,” He steps back as his lackey's close in. “Soften him up some.”

Something gives in his chest with a nausea inducing stabbing pain. His fat lip splits, the splits further, a river of blood seems to fill his mouth, but then a blow catches the side of his head and his world goes hazy. He doesn't try to hang on to consciousness, not this time, he'd prefer to be way out of it by the time these assholes decide they're going to need to get _creative_.

 

He's floating on the edge of blackness, but there's stabbing pains in his chest and his whole head feels a throbbing mess, both of which seem to be conspiring to keep him from blessed nothingness. Instead he tries to focus on a stain on the concrete floor, tries to check out best he can with blood drooling out his mouth.

Numbers isn't even sure what more they want to know. They already know Fargo sent him, they know he has a partner. Numbers doesn't know anything, he's never wanted to know anything about the syndicate's working. He's got no eye on a corporate seat and he doesn't make plans for the future.

The only thing Numbers truly knows is that his suit is ruined.

The only thing he can give them is Wrench and they'll have to carve him out of Numbers' goddamned skin.

“He doesn't tell us anything – why would he?” Numbers says tiredly.

“No, no, no see, way I hear it, your boss has a soft spot for you and deaf one.”

Numbers feels his lips curl up into something angry and disgusted. He doesn't mean to, but it's an automatic response to people insulting Wrench that he's never really tried too hard to break.

Ricky smirks.

“Yeah. You gotta thing for that kid, don't you? I forgot that's what they used to say about you back home, Numbers likes the boys. I always did wonder if it was just trash talking or if it had any weight. But you like this one too, don't you? Maybe that's the sort of incentive you need. Get your partner in front of you and just start cutting til you start singing. He know you a faggot? Not sure I'd wanna partner up with someone like you. Backstabbing, faggot junkie.”

Numbers lets the words wash over him, at least while Ricky's waxing lyrically about the shitty person Numbers is, no one is hitting him.

“Carlos, see, he liked you, but I told him, _I told him_ , people like you don't understand loyalty. It's not your fault, you don't got no family, what the fuck could you know about loyalty?” Ricky's in his face again, hand in Numbers hair, painfully yanking his head back to look him in the eye.

“But my little brother, he liked you, so I let it slide. But I knew. _I knew_. You're a rabid dog, Numbers. As far as I'm concerned,” He says, brandishing a pair of pliers. “This is gonna be a civil service.”

Ricky's fucking goons close in on him, yanking his head back, while another forces his jaw open, bruising thumbs pressing into pressure points.

Ricky grins, looming over him before shoving the pliers past Numbers' lips. “Just like old times, huh Numbers?”

Then there's just a burst of pain and Numbers' brain finally whites out.

 


	6. a lesson in revenge 2/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> detailed warnings at the end

The world comes back to focus some time later; blood is filling his mouth, an ocean of blood welling neverending from the holes left in his gums, it threatens to choke him as it runs down his throat. He can feel it dribbling out over his cracked lips as the ropes dig into him where he's sagged against them. He can see Ricky's feet stalking in and out of view until suddenly his head's pulled back again and Ricky's there, a knife in his hand with its point dangerously close to his eye.

They've just started using blades, sharp points that seem to spread fire in lines across his skin and Numbers finds himself searching desperately for something he can give, something he can live with giving up, but they know all the things he does, and unconsciousness is stubbornly remaining out of reach.

Ricky leans right down near Numbers, hot breath on his face and somehow that disgusts more that the mess he already is. The fire in his side flares as more demands for information flow, and then blood that's not his own sprays across his face, thick and wet. The knife point digs in deeper as Ricky slumps over Numbers and then the rooms erupts in gunfire, and Numbers can't see anything with a fucking body weighing heavy on his cracked ribs.

But finally the gunfire stops, Numbers catches sight of someone walking around the a lot of dead bodies before Ricky is hauled off and Wrench is there.

Numbers smiles dopily at him, regrets it almost instantaneously as a fresh wave of blood runs from his split face. He's really got to stop doing that.

 

'Are you okay _?'_ Wrench signs as he cuts Numbers free.

“Peachy.” Numbers tries to answer but from the look on Wrench's face it gets lost in the mess of Numbers' face, so he settles for a nodding motion that's mostly just his head lolling around. He's fucking tired.

He feels a wet stickiness that he's pretty sure isn't his own when Wrench slings one of Numbers' arms over his shoulder and heaves him up.

'You okay?' He asks, worried.

Wrench straightens up, holds in a wince for a good moment before groaning. So. He's not great either.

'You hit?' Numbers asks again and this time Wrench's mouth curves up like Numbers' said something funny.

'Grazed. Worry about yourself.'

'My suit's ruined.'

'I can see.'

'I liked this suit.'

They're upright and mostly steady when 'Wait, wait,' Numbers forces a stop, pries himself loose of Wrench's grip and after a moment of self steadying turns back, and leans down to pick up the package, blood dripping from a corner.

He waves it in the air with a gory smile, but Wrench is looking down at the one guy still alive. Studying his face like he hadn't had the chance to before.

'Is that?' Wrench half asks, gesturing to where Ricky is gasping bloody on the floor.

Numbers nods wearily, all his energy spent on retrieving the package.

“You know what sort of bastard you're partnered with?” Ricky snarls through bloody lips. “He'll turn on you like the fucking animal he is.”

It hurts his ribs something terrible but Numbers kicks out, the heel of his boot clipping jaw and blood sprays across the filthy cement.

“You gonna kill us all, hey, Numbers?” Ricky must have bitten off half his tongue from the look of all the blood pouring out every time his mouth opens.

Wrench presses his Colt into Numbers' hand.

The recoil makes it feel like his ribs are being broken all over again, but it's infinitely more satisfying.

Afterwards, he doesn't want to look at Wrench. He had to have read some of the words that Ricky had been spewing, and while Numbers is under no false pretenses that he's anything but a bad man, it's rarely on display, aired for everyone he cares about to see.

He takes a moment to shore up his defenses, to pretend none of this fucking touches him, tries to form a cool mask of indifference that's no doubt ruined by his bruised and bloodied face.

'Does that mean you're clear?' Wrench asks when Numbers finally looks at him.

Numbers shrugs, then shakes his head.

'I don't know man, he's probably got a dozen pissed of cousins who all want my head now. Probably going to have to avoid N-E-B-R-A-S-K-A for the rest of my life. No big fucking loss there, hey?' He jokes, nudging Wrench with his shoulder, trying to get a grin out of him.

'I like N-E-B-R-A-S-K-A.' Wrench says, with the most serious of expressions.

'You do fucking not.' He signs while mumbling, “You _like_ Nebraska? Nobody fucking likes Nebraska. People who live in Nebraska don't even fucking like Nebraska.”

And Wrench's serious face cracks as he makes a small huffing laugh.

 

They get to the car without much more to say and Wrench lowers Numbers into the passenger seat. He disappears from Numbers' field of view to rummage around in the trunk and Numbers tucks the boss' package under his seat and seriously considers passing out.

'You find Bridge?' Number asks when Wrench comes back, their car's little first aid kit in hand.

Wrench nods, signs an answer in between applying butterfly bandaids to the split in his chin., 'Playing house up in the suburbs, some gated community like he's some sort of respectable asshole.'

“Asshole.” Numbers repeats out loud before going silent again.

 

'How'd you find me?' He asks, after a time, tapping at Wrench's wrist for attention.

'I was following Bridge. Saw him come out of the warehouse.' Wrench's face screws up, as he glares at the first aid kit. 'I should have checked inside. Sorry.'

'Don't be. Hey!' Numbers hits Wrench again, harder this time. 'Don't be. Because of you we know where Bridge is and I, my friend, am in the mood to send a message.'

'You look like you should lay down and die for a week.' Wrench signs, and starts packing away the first aid kit.

He must look like shit, for Wrench to be even suggested they press pause on the job. And he _is_ tired, and he _does_ wanna lay down and die for an unspecified but long time. He wants a dentist and something in his stomach that isn't blood, but right now Bridge thinks all his problems are over, is probably relaxing and waiting for Ricky's call.

'After.' He says, sinking low in his seat, closing his eyes, hands still moving. 'Then we can sleep for a month.'

 

They get maybe a mile down the road before Numbers' stomach decides to flip.

“Fucker.” Numbers spits out before he feels himself go pale and then he's tapping Wrench's thigh with a little too much force to catch his attention before signing. 'Pull over, pull over.'

The car is still rolling when Numbers flings the door open and stumbles out to throw up on the roadside. Wrench is beside him in an instant, helping him back onto his feet. All that sudden moving and heaving have left his chest feeling like shattered glass but he lets Wrench half carry him back to the car, settle him down and disappear from sight. As Numbers leans over to put his head between his knees he can hear Wrench rummaging around the backseat.

A moment later he feels a bottle of water press against his shoulder and he takes it gratefully.

'Do we need to go back to the motel?' Wrench signs as he climbs out of the back of the car to stand in front of Numbers. His fingers pause for a moment, then a hesitantly sign, 'Hospital?'

Staring back at his feet on the dew soaked ground Numbers takes a gulp of water, swishes it around his mouth before spitting it out, staining the snow pink with red tinged water. He says “I'll be better when we kill this motherfucker.”

'Send a message.' Wrench signs, mouth a hard line.

“Rip his fucking head off.” Numbers gives Wrench a bloody grin that threatens the butterfly bandaids holding his chin together.

 

 

It seems to take forever, driving through a rabbit warren of suburban side streets until Wrench finally pulls up a pretty little two story house. There's a big flowering tree in the front yard and just one light on in the top right window. Numbers glares at the stereotypical perfect picture.

“Sneaky fuck must have been setting this up for months. Got himself a nice piece of ass for a wife, living in a good suburban home like he's never done anything wrong in his life.” Numbers is mostly talking to himself, almost ranting, but Wrench seems to be picking up the general gist.

'You're taking this awfully personally.'

“It's just we _all_ worked beside this guy. Shouldn't one of us have noticed he was going to turn rat?”

'Why would we?”' Wrench signs, being the metaphorical voice of reason.

'Makes you wonder about everyone else.' Numbers switching to signs as the conversation turns serious.

'No it doesn't.'

'Why? You trust each and every single person from the office?' He snarls it out loud even as his hands make signs that are sharp and angry, his mean tone wasted on Wrench but it makes him feel better nonetheless.

'No.' Wrench shakes his head, 'But no one's going to dare after they see what happens to rats.'

“Oh.” Numbers cocks his head to really look at Wrench a wave of fondness for the man welling up and a not so nice smile on his face, 'It's like that, is it?'

Wrench nods, an equally mean smile creeping on his face.

'Fine!' Numbers throws up his hands, settles his forehead against the window's cool glass and tries not to smile any wider.

 

They wait a couple of hours after the bedroom light goes off before slipping out and silently head towards the house. It doesn't take long to pick the deadbolt that Bridge had no doubt presumed would keep his secret home safe, and in no time they're standing over the happy sleeping couple.

'Like a baby,' Wrench's hands are barely visible in the glow of the street lamps outside and Numbers grins back, the gleam of his teeth in the dark room giving him a ghoulish look.

Wrench doesn't need two good arms to fire his rifle, he just braces it against his hip and squeezes the trigger and lets the semi-automatic do its thing.

The wife is dead by the time he stops firing but Bridge is still breathing. Choking little breaths that sound more blood than oxygen. Numbers steps out of the gloom and enjoys every goddamned second of Bridge's surprise and fear.

“It's nice to see you again, Mr Bridge.” He says as he comes close, knife in hand, letting Bridge see it as the street light glints along the blade.

Bridge struggles, but he's bleeding out and on death's door so Numbers just puts a knee on his chest and bares down on his knife. It's a good sharp knife. it cuts through Bridge's skin, muscle and trachea with ease. Blood pours from the wound in a heavy wave, coating Number's hands and wrists. He changes his hand placing on the handle for a stronger grip as he carves through the thicker neck muscles until he hits bone.

'You're too low,' Wrench critiques with an amused smirk.

'Any higher and I'm going to be skullfucking him!' Numbers haphazardly signs back with one bloody hand.

Wrench throws up his hands like the dramatic child he is.

“Do you wanna do it?” Numbers demands, waving the bloody knife at Wrench, sending blood drops everywhere – this crime scene would be a bloody mess to clean if they didn't already have plans to burn the whole house down.

Wrench looks like he wants to take Numbers' knife so he snatches it back before Wrench can.

'No, let me have this.' He signs a little sulkily, the adrenaline and euphoria from some good old violent revenge is already starting to ebb and all the aches and the sharp stabbing pain he's been ignoring is starting to make themselves known.

Numbers slides the knife around the bone, cutting sinew and flesh, before pushing the point of his knife between vertebrae and twisting it. It makes a satisfying sound as it separates and Bridge's head rolls off to the side, squelching in the pool of blood that's staining the satin duvet.

He looks up at Wrench brandishing the head by its frosted tipped hair and gives him a toothy grin. He receives one that attempts to be disapproving but breaks into something that's probably a little too fond for grown men standing over a headless body.

 

As they leave Numbers catches one last glimpse of the severed head sitting on freshly cut grass, the house a small glow that'll soon be an inferno, and all together Numbers thinks it paints a pretty grim warning for any would-be double crossers in the syndicate.

 


	7. a parting of ways 1/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one last chapter to go

It's pure chance that Numbers isn't home at the time it's getting raided. They'd been having something of a lazy midweek weekend, they didn't have any jobs lined up and had been spending the rare downtime locked in the apartment rechristening every room in the house. And they'd been doing well until they'd run out food and other supplies. One coin toss later Numbers is outside on the street with a grocery bag in one hand and a red vine in the other staring at flashing lights outside his apartment building, and it looks like he's arrived just in time to see Wrench being lead out in cuffs.

 _What_ _in_ _the ever loving fuck._

They don't exactly keep fucking murder mementos, nor do they keep the majority of their arsenal just lying around the apartment, but there's still enough personal protection scattered around their living space to put Wrench away for a good couple of five year stretches.

And that's purely just illegal firearms. They should be clean, but there's no telling what a good sweep, and some serious detective work might uncover.

Numbers watches Wrench, hands cuffed behind his back, a fed either side of him frogmarching him to a dark SUV and he knows without a doubt someone has fucked them over.

 

He goes on the fucking warpath, slamming the doors to the office as he comes in and stalks over to the only person Wrench and Numbers piss off on a regular basis.

He hits the Aussie in his pointy rat face, a good hit that's going to swell later if Numbers doesn't kill him first. But then there's hands pulling him away, holding him back and Jergen's on the floor looking up at him and saying, “What the fuck, mate?”

“I'll fucking kill you Australian son of a bitch.” Numbers is yelling back, getting ready to at least give the fucker a matching pair of black eyes, when the boss waves his hand and the room falls silent.

“I don't want to hear children bickering.” He says, looking at every man in the room. “Sort this out.”

And as far as Numbers is concerned that's as good as giving him free reign to raze the earth til he gets his partner back.

Numbers doesn't apologize for the punch, but the Aussie doesn't seem to take offense. And by the time his eye is actually completely swollen closed, together they've pretty much figured out who was most likely to have ratted on them and what the next best course of action would be. So Numbers makes a phone call and sets their plan in motion.

 

He's been waiting in the rain long enough that every layer of his clothes has gone from damp to soaked through and it feels like his skin has acquired a permanent chill. But he waits.

Finally the cop appears, Officer Delaney is a broad shouldered, square jawed son of bitch looking guy who sneers at Numbers like he's something to he wiped off the bottom of a shoe. But he's been taking Fargo's pay for nearly as long as he's been wearing blue and he comes when he's called, so Numbers doesn't give a fuck about his feelings.

He does pull Numbers into a secluded alley, the sort that people avoided entering and passing gazes skid past as if didn't exist. Despite his intimidating intentions, this does not work in the cop's favor.

“What? Fargo don't pay you enough dirty cop royalties?” Numbers says, enjoying the way Delaney seems to think he's in a position of power here.

The cop grabs Numbers by his shirt front, the fabric bunching as he slams Numbers against the brickwork. Seems like Numbers is pissing him off but Numbers has little patience for the feelings of dirty cops who don't like getting called out.

So he breaks the grip, brings his knee up hard and fast into the cop's crotch for good measure.

“Now,” Numbers says, placing a hand on the cop's shoulder as he wheezes and whines, bent nearly in double. “I can appreciate you not liking me, I don't much want to talk to you either and any other goddamned day I'd be happy to live and let live. But, today, today I'm not feeling that fucking charitable.”

He squeezes the guy's shoulder, digging into muscles that he knows will hurt.

“Now, I'm asking you nicely, _w_ _here the fuck is my partner_?”

“I don't know,” He whines, “I don't know!”

“I don't fucking believe you.” Numbers voice doesn't rise as he pulls his pistol and holds it loosely against his thigh.

“Now my boss, he wants this all done quietly. ” He speaks calmly. After years of intimidating people, Numbers has learnt sometimes the calmer he seemed, the more terrified his victims seem to get. “But me? I just want results. Believe me, I don't care how many of you badge wearing criminals I have to go through.”

“You can't kill me!” He yells with the conviction of a man who hasn't yet learnt the world didn't care. Number is happy to disillusion him. “You can't just kill a cop!”

“Kill you?” Numbers laughs, a nice pleased sound that makes it all the more horrifying for his one man audience. “Maybe I do kill you. But maybe no one finds your body. Maybe you just disappear and no one cares to look for another dirty cop. Or maybe ten years from now they find your bones in your wife's backyard and she spends the rest of her life in prison. Or maybe, just maybe you tell me what I want to know and you get to home to your loving wife and today'll just feel like a bad dream.”

“Look,” Cop's finally got the cornered rat look in his eyes, he's going to fold eventually. “I can't help you! The feds have him!”

“Feds, huh? Where are they keeping him?”

“I don't know, I don't know.”

“Bet you could find out.”

“I can't just-”

“Get it done.” Numbers interrupts him before he can work himself up.

Officer Delaney gulps, but he dials a number with shaking fingers and a few short phonecalls later Numbers is ready to believe in the power of proper motivation and a can-do attitude.

Now he's got all the information Numbers needs to form something of an idea. It's a little risky, but if it falls through it'll only be him that takes the heat, and if it works, it'll be something close to genius.

“Looks like it's your lucky day Officer Delaney.” He says wrapping a friendly arm around the cop just to see him shrug it off.

Numbers leaves the cop with instructions to meet the following morning and Delaney drives off scowling but with a defeated slump in his shoulders. Now Numbers just has to kill some time.

 

It's stupid - Numbers knows it's stupid – but his feet lead him to their apartment building. There's an obvious undercover car with two tired looking feds sitting in it staring beady eyed at the building's entrance.

But there's a dumpster close enough to the fire escape that's been their secondary entrance for nearly as long as Numbers had lived there – for whenever they weren't presentable enough to go in the front door like civilized people.

Their fucking place is trashed.

Numbers' suits have yanked out of their garment bags and it looks like at least half of them have had a knife taken to them, as though the searcher had had a personal vendetta against crooks wearing nice things. Wrench's little cactus is on the ground, surrounded by dirt and it's shattered clay pot.

It looks like they'd found the fake panel in the broom closet, Numbers' Mossberg and Wrench's lever-action .308 are both gone, no doubt tagged and being tested in a forensic lab somewhere.

But they hadn't found the stack of cash stashed between the gas pipes beneath the oven, or the glock hidden in the gap behind the loose skirting board in the hall. Numbers pockets both before making his way back to the window.

He pauses, one foot out on the fire escape. He has to go, shouldn't have even come really, and it's stupid to linger any longer than he has already.

But.

This was as close to a home as Numbers had ever had. It's a fucking shithole, the landlord was an asshole and there wasn't nearly enough hanging space for Numbers' suits.

And yet.

That's the kitchen he'd made a years worth of barely edible food before he'd finally gotten that hang of cooking.

There's a shitty framed piece of stolen motel art that's shattered on the ground that had been covering the hole Wrench had punched in the wall when they'd been drunk and either fighting or fucking around. The feds had torn that entire section of wall to shreds thinking it a hiding place, instead of just pure laziness on Numbers and Wrench's part.

It wasn't like they even spent that much time here. What little they had was spent fucking or fighting, sleeping or planning their next job.

He looks back down at the cactus, it looks even sadder now, it had survived all these years of neglect only to end like this.

Numbers shifts his weight onto the foot outside, it's stupid, he shouldn't touch anything and it's going to be obvious someone broke into the active crime scene, and yet he groans and comes back inside.

He looks around for a moment, before picking up one of the intact coffee mugs that are strewn across the kitchen floor. Numbers tries to scoop as much of the spilled soil as his can into the cup, sifting out the bigger pieces of broken pot.

He pricks his fingers maneuvering the cactus into the soil filled cup but soldiers on until its sitting somewhat securely in its new home.

That done, Numbers climbs back out onto the fire escape, he looks back in – which is a mistake, if he keeps looking back he's going to end up trying to take couch out with him – but there is just one thing he can't leave behind. Once he's retrieved that, he makes his way down awkwardly one handed, the newly potted cactus held against his chest.

After his feet are back on dirty pavement, Numbers looks up at the grime streaked window he's been staring out for years, straightens his scarf and turns away. He risks a glance at the unmarked car as he crosses the street, the agents within look just as tired as they did before, their attention on the coffee cups they're sipping from. Numbers flicks up his collar against the chilling wind and fades into the street traffic as he walks away.

 

It takes him longer than he'd like for all the steps in the Break Wrench Out plan to fall into place, so Numbers decides to take the spare time to deal with the root of the problem.

Now Numbers has to believe Mr Fingers didn't actually think about what he was doing. He can't truly have been that vindictive. Sure he was an asshole, but he wasn't out to take down the syndicate over whatever perceived personal slight he imagined Numbers and Wrench had aimed at him.

Fingers is one of Fargo's old school men. One of the ones that had been against Numbers coming back into the fold, one that didn't think a deaf hitman could be of any use. He was a prejudiced asshole with enough skills that his shitty personality was overlooked. Not a one of them were any particular pleasure to be around anyhow.

But a couple of months ago Wrench and Numbers had snagged a job off him by the simple virtue of being a duo instead of a solo act.

Turns out that had been Mr Finger's final straw.

He was still a loyal company man, but in end it didn't matter, with this petty stunt he'd potentially opened up Fargo to all sorts of Federal scrutiny and that alone was enough to sign his death warrant.

But Numbers didn't care about that – not really – he doesn't give a shit how fucking _wronged_ Fingers feels, Wrench was in FBI custody because of this asshole's pettiness. That's reason enough for him to take the jerk out.

Now Numbers isn't much of a brawler, he's better at rolling with punches and avoiding injury, not inflicting, but he can still throw a pretty nasty punch. And given the right motivation he doesn't mind skinning his knuckles on some douchebag's face.

He greets Fingers at the door with a full bodied punch. The old man doubles over in both surprise and pain and Numbers brings his knee up to crash against his face. Blood gushes from a now broken nose and Numbers shoves Fingers backwards, sprawling in the foyer as he shuts the door behind him.

Fingers is spluttering and spitting out blood as Numbers crouches down beside him.

“I should thank you, Fingers, I haven't felt this motivated for years.” Numbers smiles as the Fingers recognizes him and goes red faced and angry, like he was the wronged party here.

“You can't do this! I was killing people for Fargo when you were still on your Momma's tit!”

Unlikely, but Fingers' sentiment of being older is at least true.

“That's not the problem, Fingers, what the fuck were you thinking?”

Fingers falters, mouth opening and closing before he stutters out, “I don't, I-”

“Christ man! You called the fucking cops!” Numbers yells, cutting his stammering off.

Finally – _finally_ – his face goes bone white, like all his transgressions have just hit him, like all his shitty decisions have just dawned on him and as Fingers looked up at him, Numbers can see he knows there's only one way this will end. No bargains, no talking himself out of it.

He sags against the ropes holding him.

“I fucked up, didn't I?” Fingers asks in a small voice, like he has no idea how he got to this point.

“Yeah you did, Fingers.” Numbers isn't even angry anymore, there's no out of control rage bubbling in him, he doesn't really feel anything but tired. He's ready for this to be over, there's a lot he has to do after this, and it's going to be a long time before he gets any rest. And he doesn't even have a fucking home to go to.

He had had grand plans. To spend time making Fingers regret every decision in his miserable life, to leave a lasting stain to be seen by anyone who might look to fuck them over. Now he just wants this done.

Fingers is mumbling to himself, different variations of _I don't know, I didn't mean_ and _fucks,_ he doesn't even notice Numbers circle around him, isn't paying attention when Numbers points his pistol at the back of Fingers' head and is gone the moment after.

Numbers sighs as he puts his gun back away.

He hopes cleaning this mess up and getting rid of the body doesn't take all night.

He hopes he can maybe even get some sleep before he has to be up early in the morning doing something more stupid.

 


	8. a parting of ways 2/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> &so this comes to a close. warnings, as usual, at the end.

 

Morning comes too soon – but also not soon enough - he's too old to be sleeping in cars comfortably. He flicks down the visor and gives himself a once over in the mirror. Well. He doesn't look like much but he's awake and that's all he really needs.

A quick visit to a truckstop just out of town, Numbers gets a shower and several too strong coffees until he's feeling more alive. Uncomfortable in the clothes he's swapped his suit out for, but somewhat refreshed as he watches passing cars slow at the sight of him sitting on the hood of his car, sipping coffee in a dark blue uniform.

Officer Delaney shows up fifteen minutes late, he looks nervous and his eyes bulge amusingly when he gets a good look at Numbers wearing the same uniform as him. But he's here, which, to be honest, Numbers is a bit surprised he had to stones to show at all. Dirty cops weren't exactly the trustworthy sort.

“Jesus Christ.” Delaney mutters at the ground as he gets out of his SUV and Numbers grins at his discomfort.

Still, he pops the back of his SUV open for Numbers to stash the duffel bag that holds all his and Wrench's worldly possessions.

“You wanna?” Delaney's gesturing at the driver's seat but Numbers shakes his head and heads for the other side.

Once he's settled in he puts his little cup potted cactus in the cup holder and stares coolly at Delaney, daring him to make a comment. But the policeman just blinks suspiciously at the plant like it's something dangerous and doesn't say a goddamned thing.

Numbers doesn't push any further, just puts his shades on and leans back on the headrest. “Let's just get this done.”

Officer Fuckbag must agree because he shifts the car into drive and pulls out without another comment.

 

 

“New guy, huh?”

“Oh ya, down from Duluth. Pleased to meetcha.” Numbers lays on his best Minnesotan accent, the sort that sounded so ridiculous it couldn't be fake. The Fed laughs as he shakes Numbers' hand, one of those mocking laughs with sharp edges, he's already placed Numbers in the category of useless but harmless, a joke to tell the boys at the bar.

They bring Wrench out handcuffed and shackled, agents either side of him with hands on their weapons like they're afraid he's going to hulk out and break free.

There's a ring of purple circling Wrench's eye, spreading across his cheek bone and there's probably more he can't see under those hideous orange coveralls because Wrench would never go down easy. Numbers tamps down on the wave of rage that swell unexpectedly, keeping his face smooth and genial and very pointedly doesn't start executing everyone here with his sidearm.

Numbers collar itches, but he refrains from pulling at the over-starched navy blue uniform because Wrench's face has gone still and he's finally looked beyond the pair of uniforms that'll be escorting him to his new life of imprisonment.

“He don't talk much. Can't hear none either, he shouldn't give you any trouble.” The fed says in a tone that insinuates he expects Numbers' hick ass to have trouble just tying his shoes let alone handling a prisoner transport.

Wrench very casually catches Numbers' eye in the rearview mirror and signs a slow 'You look ridiculous.'

“Hey!” Agent In Charge thumps Wrench's window with a scowl. “Cut it out!”

“Hey now, it's alright.” Numbers says pleasantly, still playing the part of the dim prisoner transporter.

“Don't let him give you no lip.”

Numbers smirks.

“You know what I mean, he might seem all harmless and disabled, but that man's a suspected murderer and a lot worse. Just drop him off at the Marshall office in Minneapolis, no stops, detours. And don't turn your back on him.” The agent lectures like it's Numbers' first day on the job - it technically is -but he's old enough that if he truly were a cop, he'd be old hat at this by now, so really it's more than a little condescending.

“Oh ya, no worries, me and this fella are gonna get along fine.” Numbers' twists in his seat to give the glaring agent his friendliest smile.

It's all about context, he thinks, as the fed rolls his eyes, the look on his face says Officer Numbers is a lost cause and not long for this job, or indeed probably this world. Numbers had made grown men piss themselves with that very smile.

Context, he thinks again and laughs with an added pat on Officer Delaney's shoulder. He at least looks satisfyingly green.

When all the paperwork is signed and Agent-In-Charge has given Numbers yet another lecture on all the dangers of prisoner transport – and isn't he going to be pissed tomorrow morning? - he gives the feds another friendly little wave as Delaney starts the car. Delaney rolls his eyes, his disgust outweighing his fear for the moment, while Wrench's lips twitch upwards.

'What?' He signs as they pull out onto the street. 'I don't make a good P-I-G?'

Wrench snorts.

“I'm going to get into so much trouble for this.” Officer Dirtbag says, the fear coming crashing back.

Numbers feels himself grinning again, this one less friendly, more smirking, “Oh, I wouldn't worry about that.”

Delaney doesn't ask what he means.

 

Wrench starts signing once they're traveled good distance away, his stiff body language loosening as they get further down the road. Wrench's words are stunted with jangling cuffs and chains but he gets the majority of it.

'What about evidence?'

'Aussie's on it'. Numbers answers and Wrench's eyebrows rise in surprise.

'Thought for sure it was him. After the-'

Numbers knee raises to steady the wheel as he waves his hands in a frantic 'No, no, no! You promised me you'd never mention _that_ again.'

Numbers has already been forced lived through the actual prank – and the multiple retellings – and while it had been admittedly hilarious, it had ultimately been horribly gross and now it was stuck in his head _again_ and has Numbers not suffered enough?

Wrench laughs.

'Thought he'd at least hold a grudge.'

'No,' Numbers laughs. 'he actually thought that was funny. Thought it was a good joke.'

Wrench's skeptical look is a thing of beauty.

'So it's just his sense of humor that's suspect as hell.'

Delaney watches the interaction with a suspicious but sullen glare, but gives up trying to parse meaning and just sinks further in his seat content to suffer in silence until they reach where they've got to go.

 

The Aussie is waiting for them when the reach the rendezvous spot. Just him and another car for them to go their separate ways when this was done.

“Ladies!” He calls out with a jaunty wave, like he hasn't been waiting in this spot for hours with multiple bodies in his trunk. But then, there was something wrong with The Aussie.

Numbers shakes his head and generally ignores him in favor of unlocking Wrench's handcuffs and chains. _Jesus Christ_ , but they've got him fettered good. Like they had actually expected him to hulk out and just start breaking chains with his bare hands.

He dips his head to hide _that_ smile, undoing Wrench's ankles and then dumping all the chains and cuffs in a pile on the floor.

'Deal with him.' Numbers signs to Wrench, tossing a roll of duct tape at him and giving Delaney a pointed look, then heads towards Jergen.

He's already popped the trunk and is manhandling a body out by the time Numbers gets to him.

“Here, give us a hand will ya? Your body double's a hefty fucker.”

Numbers doesn't ask how Jergen got two cars out here, or where he'd got the bodies from, the fact that he's here alone is enough to float a bit of trust. So he grabs the corpse's legs and helps haul it towards the other car.

 

“This better work.” Numbers says they try and convince the body to stop falling. “Jesus Christ, Tripoli's going to kill me.”

“Nah, mate, boss is impressed.” Jergen pauses, shoving the body back into the driver's seat as it threatens to fall back out, Numbers graciously pulls the seatbelt across and straps it in for him. “Well. He will be if this all falls like it's supposed to. If not, we all die horribly, most like.”

He grins at Numbers like he didn't mind which way all this turned out.

“Right-o, I'm supposed to be in North Dakota so I better be off. You boys be good.” He says with an added 'Look after your idiot partner, yeah?' to Wrench like Numbers isn't even there.

It always surprised Numbers that the only one, other than the boss, close to fluent in ASL was the Aussie. He just had to guess that most likely Jergen liked the idea that he could be offensive to _everyone_ in the office.

Wrench nods then gives a pointed look to Numbers,

“Hey!” He yells at Jergen's retreating back. “Thanks. Or whatever.”

The Aussie turns, still walking backwards to his car, and laughs.

“I should be thanking you guys! I've done a lot of illegal things, _a lot,_ this might've been the most rewarding.” He cackle-snorts, stumbling lightly in the snow. “But, if this all goes tits up, I was never fucking here!”

Wrench shoots Numbers a quizzical look and Numbers just signs 'fucking insane' at him, which explains The Aussie quite succinctly he thinks.

He lifts a hand goodbye as he drives off.

 

'Change of clothes in the car.' he signs to Wrench, because if he never sees another pair of bright orange coveralls, he could probably die a happy man.

'We should keep it.' Wrench signs, finishing the statement with his fingers on Numbers' collar. He shoves him away and tries to will his face not to turn red at _that_ onslaught of mental images. He's infinitely glad The Aussie's no longer here to laugh his ass off at them.

But Numbers is ready to be out of his uniform, it's not _uncomfortable_ per say but it's stiff collar feels like it's choking him and he startles every time he catches sight of his reflection, There's something unnatural about seeing himself dressed as a cop.

They make short work of it, stripping efficiently, redressing just as quickly to fend off the early morning chill.

He's glad they've always left a go bag in the office, because Numbers doesn't think he'd survive wearing whatever clothes the Aussie might've chosen to buy for him. Though the mental image of Jergen trying to shop for an absent Wrench gives him a moment of amusement. Still, it's fucking nice to be back in a neat suit, he thinks, tugging at his sleeves to straighten them.

 

He takes his discarded cop uniform over to the SUV where Delaney is still trussed up like a little duct tape burrito, held in place by his seat belt, waiting for whatever came next.

'Grab the bag in the back.' he signs to Wrench while he goes to deal with this.

“Please.” Delaney says around the fat lip Wrench must have given him when he didn't want to hold still.

“You shouldn't have listened to Mr Fingers.” Numbers says as he dumps the uniform over the body that's going to be playing him.

“I was just doing what you guys pay me to do! This wasn't my fault!” He's almost pleading now, eyes wide and crazy.

“I know, but it's not like we can trust you again.” Number says, pulling free a new stretch of duct tape. “So. Sorry about this.”

“No you're not.” Delaney spits out before Numbers presses the duct tape across his mouth and shuts him up for good.

“No, I'm really not.” He admits as he leans over and pulls the lever to pop the fuel cap open.

Delaney's eyes widen, his head shaking as much as it can taped up like he is. He makes little pleading noises in his throat but whatever he's got to say is moot at this point. He'd called in the tip that had gotten Wrench arrested – doesn't matter that he thought he was doing Fargo's bidding – the end result is where they've arrived to now, on a quiet lonely road in the middle of nowhere, just the three of them alone for miles.

It's shitty, but he's a loose end and a liability, and Numbers owes him nothing.

Numbers hears the zip of Wrench opening the bag in the back and when he looks Wrench is just standing very still. As though he'd found a rattlesnake in the bag and Numbers searches his memory for offensive things he might've packed in his hurry. Maybe he'd found the plastic baggie of severed fingers, but last time Numbers had done something similar Wrench had just snorted in disgusted amusement, so it's probably not that.

Wrench looks at him something that looks like confusement on his face. Numbers spreads his hands, asking 'What?'

Wrench's hands move, then fall still, as if he isn't sure what he wants to say, instead he finally just shakes his head and waves Numbers off.

Numbers shrugs and goes about stuffing a rag down into the gas tank. He's about to light it when Wrench slams the back of the SUV closed, and when he looks up Wrench is there – close – bag slung over one shoulder and.

_Oh._

He'd found that goddamned fringe jacket that Numbers _hated_ but couldn't leave behind when he gone through their trashed apartment.

Numbers has a lighter in one hand and the end of a gasoline soaked rag in the other and Wrench is looking at him like he hung the goddamned moon or something.

“Shut the fuck up.” He says even though Wrench isn't saying anything and pointedly looks at his hands just so he doesn't have to see that not-quite-smug grin lighting up Wrench's face.

He can fucking _feel_ Wrench grinning but he doesn't push it any further, just gives Numbers a gentle shoulder bump as he passes by to take the duffel bag over to their car.

“Fuck.” Numbers mutters to himself, yet again pausing, he's forgetting something. He flicks the lighter a couple of times for inspiration and then walks back to the front of the SUV and opens the door again. Poor Officer Delaney looks at him with such hopeful eyes that Numbers almost feels bad. Instead he reaches across the seat and collects the little cactus sitting in the cup holder. He didn't go to all the trouble of rescuing it just to let it burn.

Delaney's screams are muffled behind duct tape but he still makes a good amount of noise, but Numbers lights the gasoline soaked rag anyway, and takes a good half a dozen steps back. Once he's sure the fire definitely caught on, he retreats back to where Wrench is waiting by their car.

Wrench has the strangest look on his face when Numbers comes back with little cactus cradled in his hand.

There's literally a man burning to death not more than fifty feet from them but that doesn't stop Numbers feeling like a schoolkid whose just asked someone to go steady and is anxiously awaiting an answer.

Wrench takes the cactus from his hands, puts it carefully in the front of the car and then turns back to Numbers.

'What now?'

'Lay low, head west, M-O-N-T-A-N-A. Might have some a job or two across the border.' Numbers shrugs, then repeats. 'Lay low.'

'You hate the cold.'

'I hate everything.' Numbers grimaces, though Wrench isn't wrong. He feels like he's cold all the goddamned time, but to be honest once they pass the 45th parallel it all seemed to blend into a miserable but monotonous cold. 'I hate prison more.'

He doesn't know why, but _that_ seems to bring Wrench's fond look back to full force. He's about to sign a 'What?' when Wrench just about jumps him, arms wrapping around him, lifting him up, his face buried in Numbers' neck. “What th-” Numbers struggles and the elbow he tries to swing at ribs hits a chest that may as well be a brickwall. “Jesus Christ.” He mutters to himself before giving up and wrapping his arms around Wrench's neck, resigning himself to being awkwardly carried to the front of the car and spread across the hood.

He spares a moment to think about how grossly inappropriate this is but then Wrench has his hands at Numbers' belt and he doesn't think about much but biting kisses and hands fumbling at clothes.

Then the SUV explodes and reality comes crashing back.

“Ffffuuuck.” Numbers breathes out a groan and lets his head drop back on the hard metal of the hood. He can feel Wrench, his head resting on Number's chest, shaking with quiet little huffs of laughter.

He reaches down, holds the man's face in his hands and says, “We gotta go.”

Wrench leans in and kisses him again, something softer, but as he helps pull Numbers off the hood and back to the ground.

'Fine, but later,' Wrench signs, his smile turning into a leer, 'I'm going to fuck you into the mattress.'

As threats go it's not very effective. But as promises go... Well. It's safe to say that Numbers is looking forward to whatever shitty motel they end up crashing at tonight.

 

He's still rebuttoning his shirt – _Jesus Christ how did Wrench get so many undone so quick?_ \- when he gets into the passenger seat and slouches down low, wondering how pissed Wrench would get if he napped for the next hundred miles.

'Hey, got you a present.' He signs suddenly, remembering, as Wrench pulls the car onto the road. 'You're gonna love it.'

'I swear to god, Numbers, if it's body parts again..' Wrench trails off with a head shake and Numbers grin splits wide and toothy.

'You're gonna hate it.' Numbers signs with absolutely no intention of not throwing a bag of severed fingers at his partner sometime in the near future.

 

They're going to be exiled from home for what's probably going to be a long time. Until after enough time has passed for Fargo's tech wizards to sneak in and slowly fade Wrench from federal databases, subtly change what couldn't be outright deleted, so that any future brushes they might have with the law would yield nothing suspicious.

Ten years and all they've got to show for it is a duffel bag that's not even close to full.

Still.

There was time to remedy that. Now, they have time.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ch1- very general shitty childhood in a group home, mild violence  
> ch2 - contains mentions of past drug use &withdrawal. most of it is fairly vague.  
> ch3 - non consensual drug use (its thrown in the face of a past addict and he ingests quite a bit of it)  
> ch5 - good old fashioned torture (beatdown & non graphic implication of tooth pulling)  
> ch6 - continuing torture + fairly graphic description of decapitation  
> ch8 - burning a guy alive + one sincerely inappropriate place to makeout


End file.
